James Axler - Infinity Breach

DEMY OCTAVO HURRIED through the dense undergrowth of Isle Terandoa, propelling herself with swift strides of her long, shapely legs. The U.S. Navy clearly considered the island to be secure, she realized as she pushed thick fronds aside and sidled close to the wire fence that surrounded the naval base. There was the occasional sentry patrol, but their movements were languid and unhurried, a sign that it was considered routine rather than a conscious act to protect the base from potential infiltrators. They may well be able to repel a fleet of warships, but they were utterly unprepared for a single interloper.

The beautiful Signorina Octavo brushed aside the heavy leaves of a salmonberry bush, sweeping its rich pink flowers and yellowish fruit from her path. The wire fence stood barely six feet ahead of her now, and just a little beyond that, she could see the window to the small office where Abraham Flag consulted with his companions on the nature of the ancient Annunaki dagger. The window itself was closed, in spite of the heat of the day, and the dark-haired woman sneered with irritation at not being able to hear the discussion within.

No matter. Flag had led her right to the priceless knife, and its acquisition was all that concerned Octavo now. Whatever the nature of that strange stone blade, it could be examined by the fascist scientists of her native Italy as soon as she returned with it.

Her gloved fingers reached down, and Demy Octavo pulled one of the silver-handled Berettas from its resting place at her hip. She flipped the safety catch on the left-hand side, pulling it toward her to engage the weapon.

A thin, heartless smile creased those luscious, falu-red lips as the glamorous Italian special agent aimed the pistol at the tall figure pacing back and forth behind the office window. In a moment, she assured herself, her hated enemy, Abraham Flag, would be no more.

THE AIR WAS BECOMING noticeably warmer in the tiny office as Abraham Flag walked back and forth, weighing thoughts of the Annunaki blade with his razor-keen intellect. The uncomfortable warmth was the effect of three bodies in such an enclosed space, he knew, but that mild discomfort made him conscious of something else: his need for privacy while he studied this queer object from another time.

“I shall take the stone knife to my laboratory,” Flag stated, his words cutting into the friendly bickering that was continuing between his two loyal companions.

Even as the words left his mouth, Flag sensed something behind him. He spun on his heel, turning to face the window at the exact instant that its glass pane shattered and a 9 mm bullet raced over his shoulder. Missing Flag by a fraction of an inch, the bullet zipped across the tiny room before embedding itself in the far wall with a dull thud.

“We’re under attack!” Flag cried as his companions took cover behind the desk.

As he spoke, Flag saw a familiar figure dressed in a brown leather flight suit moving just beyond the shattered window. It was Demy Octavo, leaping down from the wire fence that marked the border of the naval base. Flag was momentarily distracted as he admired her for a fraction of a second, her lithe, trim body like that of a dancer, her long, dark hair swirling in the island breeze. And then she raised the pistol in her right hand, and another 9 mm slug ripped through the space where the windowpane had been just a moment ago, blasting over Flag’s head and rushing onward into the room.

Abraham Flag did not take cover, however. Rather, he was already in motion, a whirling dervish as the glass of the window crunched beneath his booted feet. In a second, Demy Octavo leaped through the window, snapping her heels high in the air and passing through the frame without so much as brushing it, in a feat of incredible muscle control.

While Abraham Flag had been known to kill, he preferred not to arm himself with a gun. He had no objection to the use of ultimate force if it was required; he simply felt that carrying a gun was largely unnecessary when other means existed to halt a foe’s progress. As such, the incredible man of science now found himself unarmed and staring down the loaded barrel of a Beretta Model 1915.

“Good afternoon, Professor Flag,” the beautiful gun mistress said in English, her throaty voice displaying just the faintest hint of her exotic accent.

Flag saw the slightest hesitation in the woman’s eyes, as Octavo went to pull the trigger. He used that momentary hesitation—which could have been no more than an eighth of a second—to shift his head out of the path of the 9 mm slug as it left the barrel and raced through the air toward him. Then, as the bullet clipped past Flag’s ear, his hand whipped out and snatched the pistol before Octavo could loose another shot.

Octavo cried out as the pistol left her hand, along with her glove, which was caught up by Flag’s swift action. As her glove fell to the floor with a slap, the beautiful Italian turned on Flag, hissing like an enraged cat.

Abraham Flag’s eyes never left Octavo’s, but his fingers worked in a blur of movement. In less than two seconds, he had deconstructed the Beretta with one hand, dropping the component parts to the hard floor of the tiny office. But that minuscule distraction had been enough. As the barrel, grip and trigger guard tinkered to the wooden floor, Demy Octavo’s fist snapped out, connecting with Flag’s square jaw.

Caught off guard, Flag took a step backward, reeling from the savage blow. That momentary stumble threatened to cost Flag—and by extension the U.S. government—plenty. Signorina Octavo swooped down at the object resting on the desk like a hawk swooping down on a field mouse, snatching the stone knife in her right hand. She was still moving as Flag recovered, her tall body twisting as she jumped back to the window.

“Look out, Professor!” Barnaby B. Barnaby called from his hiding place behind the desk. “That incorrigible Italian ingenue is escaping. And she’s got our knife!”

Octavo leaped once more through the shattered window, an angry snarl marring her flawless features. She had the ancient artifact, but she had lost one of her precious Beretta pistols during the scuffle. Landing on the tarmac beyond the broken window, Demy Octavo took off at a run, the heels of her Italian leather boots clip-clopping against the ground as she made her way past the administration block.

“Where’s she goin’, Chief?” Little Ant asked as he watched the woman hurry away.

Instantaneously, Flag recalled the layout of the naval base. “She’s heading toward the main dock of the base!” he exclaimed. “Signorina Octavo is either planning to steal a boat…or my plane. Come on, let’s go.” As he said those final words, Flag was at the door to the office, running out into the corridor at a fast clip.

Outside, Demy Octavo had already reached the long airstrip where Flag has landed his experimental aircraft less than an hour before. She was as graceful as a gazelle as her arms pumped, and her long legs strove forward, the ancient knife clutched firmly in her right hand.

Two sailors were refueling Flag’s curious air vehicle as Octavo appeared from around the side of the two-story administration building. Nearby, another group of sailors—eight in all—were busy at work refitting a one-man submarine. The sub was still in the testing stages, the parts laid out along the concrete skirt beside the airstrip. All of the naval personnel looked up at the sound of running feet, and were surprised and baffled when they saw the striking form of the Italian special agent sprinting toward them.

Behind Octavo, the door to the administration block crashed open and Professor Flag came running out with his two mismatched partners hot on his heels. “Stop that woman!” Flag bellowed, his powerful voice needing no augmentation to be heard clear across the other side of the sunbaked airstrip.